


Idle Threats

by MistressPandora



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Blowjob in the woods, For Survival, Jamie kind of digs it, Lord John is a brat, M/M, Rather aggressive hickies, Semi-public dirty talk (but tasteful), Sharing Body Heat, and cuddling, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Lord John Grey joins the Frasers for Hogmanay on the Ridge and finds he can't help but torment Jamie. But Jamie won't stand for idle threats, so John makes good on his promises.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Claire Fraser (adjacent), Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 33
Kudos: 107
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	1. Vexing and Revelry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeviSqueaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeviSqueaks/gifts).



> This was originally supposed to be a self-indulgent little drabble for LeviSqueaks. Instead it's two chapters. Oooops....

Lord John Grey surveyed the charming chaos before him, dancing revelers packed into every spare inch of space in the house. They spilled onto the front porch, through the kitchen door into the yard, cycled through their turns at the hearth. Someone played a jaunty melody on a fiddle from the direction of the sitting room, but Grey could not spot them through the throng of humanity. He did spot Jamie Fraser, however, a gaggle of his tenants gathered around him, as was usual in any gathering on Fraser’s Ridge. His smile was broad, eyes crinkled around the sides with laughter. 

The Big House, as the Fraser home was called, was filled to bursting with kinsmen and neighbors to celebrate Hogmanay, greenery and candles adorning every possible surface. John could not cross a room without colliding into at least three other guests. It was a far cry from the formal musicales that his mother had been accustomed to hosting in London. Those parties had filled her house with peers and society, and been terribly dull. This gathering was like the primordial force of creation itself, all joy and music and irreverent dancing. John raised himself up on tiptoe to make eye contact with Jamie across the whirling horde and smiled in greeting. Jamie beckoned him over with a wave of his left hand.

“I hoped you could settle a conflict between myself and Mr. Wemyss, Lord John,” Jamie said, laying a hand feather-light against John’s arm. Jamie was quite composed, but John could hear the faint tug of whisky in his voice. “It concerns your time as the governor of Jamaica. Mr. Wemyes is under the impression that children on the island are all illiterate.”

“Nonsense,” John argued. “In fact, I recall a young boy, newly begun to read. Brilliant mind, could put together large words, but challenged by monosyllables. He struggled most particularly with M-I-L-K, as I recall. His school master attempted to lead him to the inevitable and inquired, ‘Well then, what does your mother put in her tea?’ The boy replied, ‘Rum, sir.’”

It only took a moment for the jest to penetrate the fog of drink, and Jamie threw his head back and laughed, his hand clapping hard on John’s shoulder. Grey swayed under the assault, gripping Jamie’s shoulder to maintain his footing. He laughed with Jamie, relishing his joy. It warmed John’s heart and he would have given anything to stay in this moment forever.

“If you enjoyed that,” John said, “here is a riddle for you.” The group didn’t sober, but grew quiet enough to hear. “What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole it’s often poked before?”

There was a pause in which Mr. Wemyss went very pink and the corner of Jamie’s mouth quirked to the side, anticipating the worst. John let it stretch. “A key, gentlemen.” He narrowed his eyes at Jamie and struggled to keep the smile from his face. “What did you think I meant?”

Jamie went bright red about the ears but kept his smile firmly in place. Mr. Wemyss wandered off, leaving John relatively alone with Jamie in the crowd. John tilted his face toward Jamie’s ear, and his much taller friend bent to him. “I know  _ precisely _ what you were thinking about, James Fraser. Because I was thinking about your... “ he looked deliberately down to the apron of Jamie’s kilt, drawing Jamie’s eyes along with a visible swallow. “Key. As well,” he finished.

“Oh. God,” Jamie whispered.

John indulged in a smug smile and took a step away to embrace Claire as she approached. She beamed at him, perfect white teeth flashing as John pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “You look radiant as ever, my dear,” John said, releasing her hand. In fact she looked downright scandalous with sweat streaming down her neck, cheeks flushed from exertion, and bare hair flying in all directions like some whirling dervish. 

Claire sketched him a little curtsy, mostly ironic, and raised an accusing eyebrow at him. “Willie is a most enthusiastic dance partner.” She laughed. “You should really speak to him about being kind to old women.”

“Nay, Sassenach,” Jamie declared as he seized her about the waist with one powerful arm. “Ye’ve no’ aged at all since we wed.” He spun her around in a circle and she squealed, laughing. “Except that your hair has gone silver. And you canna read without spectacles.” Jamie’s hand slid from her back to briefly squeeze her rear. In the press of people, no one noticed--or cared--save for Grey. “Aye, but ye still have a nice, round arse,” he growled into her ear, exaggerating the roll of all of his  _ Rs _ . 

Jamie made to whisk Claire off to the dance floor, but John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, tugging him down to whisper in his ear. “Don’t wear yourself out,” John said, his breath making the errant strands of Jamie’s red hair quiver. He felt Jamie shudder as he drew himself back up to his full height, blue eyes darting from John to Claire and back again. John shot him an impish grin as he stepped back to watch his friend dance with his wife.

"Papa," Willie said.

John turned to find his stepson weaving his way through the sea of Scottish humanity, a most mischievous grin on his face. Grey grew instantly suspicious. "Oh no, what have you--"

Willie stepped aside to reveal a woman with dark hair streaked with grey at her temples. Perhaps Claire's age, she was tiny in comparison to Willie, a few inches shorter than Grey himself. She stared at John in frank appraisal. 

"Papa, this is Mrs. Jenny Murray. Mrs. Murray, Lord John Grey." 

John made a leg and bowed over her hand, whoever she was. Willie seemed to think she was terribly important. "Your servant, ma'am."

Mrs. Murray arched a graceful brow at John. "Lord John," she said. Her voice was steady, firm, commanding. Either this woman had raised a large number of children under intense hardship or she had led armies into battle against impossible odds. And won. Repeatedly. "My brother wrote about you."

"Your brother?" John asked. Surely she didn't mean….

"Mrs. Murray is Father's sister," Willie explained.

_ Oh. Christ _ .

Mrs. Murray turned her steely gaze up to Willie with an expression that made her appear to tower over him. "Aye. And ye'll put an end to this 'Mrs. Murray's nonsense and call me Auntie. D'ye understand me, lad?"

Willie bowed deeply. "As you wish, Auntie Jenny."

Mrs. Murray nodded once, satisfied and regal as a queen.

"Mrs. Murray, it is my absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance," John said seriously. "However, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I hope we may have the opportunity to get to know each other soon."

Her face underwent a profound transformation in the barely perceptible softening of her eye, revealing a hint of her shared parentage with Jamie. Her jaw and brow didn't surrender any of their sternness. John found himself burning with curiosity about this woman. She was lovely in her own way, and John was becoming quite taken with her. She also terrified him in some indefinable manner.

"Aye, that we will, my lord," she replied. 

"Please, call me John."

Mrs. Murray nodded. "Aye then, John. And ye may call me Mrs. Murray."

John covered his heart with one hand and nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Murray."

"What are your intentions with my brother?" she demanded, quite without warning.

Panic surged through John and he slid his polite mask into place. Behind his practiced calm facade, his heart pounded and he began formulating an escape plan.  _ Shit. Shit, shit. _ "I intend only to be his friend and ally, ma'am. As I have for many years."

Mrs. Murray's eyes narrowed. "Mmhmm." She slid her hand through the crook of Willie's elbow. "Come, Lad. Let's fetch a wee dram and then you can spin me round the dance floor."

Willie beamed down at her. "That would be my pleasure, Auntie."

The easy affection Mrs. Murray showed Willie warmed John's heart. He was well loved by both the Dunsanys and Grey's own family, but missing from that had been open displays of unconditional love and familial intimacy. Members of English society just didn't _do_ _that_ , not the way Highlanders did.

John searched the crowd again and found Jamie and Claire dancing near the fiddler. 

John smiled and nodded appropriately at the people around him as they greeted him, but he kept his attention on his friend. Jamie spun Claire and she twirled directly into her nephew Ian's waiting arms, who picked up the lead without losing the beat. Ian let out a Mohawk whoop and an answering cheer went up through the nearest revelers.

That was his chance. Jamie was as alone as he was going to be and John picked his way to his side. Every inch of visible skin was slicked with sweat and John was reminded of a long-ago night when Jamie had loomed over him, more flesh shining with perspiration from a different sort of exertion. Desire flared through John, his blood beginning to simmer with it.

Jamie threw his arm around John's shoulders as he approached and he returned the friendly greeting, tugging their sides together until they touched. "We should find you a dance partner, John," Jamie said.

"Perhaps later," John replied. He leaned close to speak softly into Jamie's ear. "I want to steal you away right now and lick the sweat from your entire body."

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," Jamie whimpered. Jamie Fraser, formerly a general in the Continental Army, highland warrior, laird of Fraser's Ridge,  _ whimpered _ . And John had been the cause of it. 

As Jamie's eyes darted around to see who had heard--no one had--John indulged in another impish grin. He knew that he was being an insufferable ass, but he didn't care. This was  _ fun _ . "I met your sister," he said, changing the subject. "Charming woman. Very protective of you."

Jamie nodded and licked his lips as he stared down at John. "Oh aye, she is. What did she say? Exactly?"

"She wanted to know my intentions regarding you," John answered.

Jamie blanched. "Oh God. She knows. Christ, I'll never hear the end of it."

"She does not know," John said, leaning in to whisper again. "How could your sister possibly know that my immediate intention is to find us a reasonable degree of privacy where I can suck your prick until you pull my hair and cry my name?" He spoke slowly, letting his lips ghost over Jamie's ear.

Jamie said something obscene in French, his face going red to his ears. "John, please," he hissed.

"That's the spirit," John answered. Their backs were to a wall, and Grey slid his hand from its resting place on Jamie's back and dug his fingers into the muscle of his kilted ass.  _ And a finely made ass at that _ .

Jamie squeaked, a strangled sound that he managed to cut off before it drew unseemly attention to them. 

Chuckling to himself, John turned his back on Jamie and went in search of a drink. He found an inviting array of bottles and empty glasses on a table in the kitchen. Fergus and his wife had staked a claim in the last empty corner of the big house. They held each other close, swaying in a lazy approximation of the livelier dancing in the other room. Fergus spared a glance and a nod of greeting to Grey, which he returned.

John selected a decanter at random and lifted it over an empty glass, also selected at random. "Nay, not that one!" Marsali said urgently. He froze and blinked at her. "Nay, you dinna want that whisky. It's only aged a year, it's nay raw!" 

"Oh," John said, putting the decanter back on the table. 

Marsali rummaged through a cabinet and came up with a different bottle and poured him out a generous portion. "This is one of the first casks Da put back when he settled the Ridge. It willna burn a hole in your guts." She gave John a wink and corked the bottle.

"I am most grateful for your intervention, ma'am," he said with an elegant bow.

She beamed at him. "Pleased to be of service, sir." She returned her attention to Fergus and the couple retreated to their own universe consisting only of each other.

John turned away to leave them in privacy and inhaled the warm, malty scent of the whisky. He took a sip, the amber spirit cool to the touch, warm to the taste. It was soothing and bracing and he felt his inhibitions lower by degrees with each drop. Jamie had made this. Through his own effort and sweat and skill, Jamie had created something spectacular. The heat spreading through John's body might have been Jamie's embrace.

_ You pathetic idiot _ , John scolded himself.  _ Christ in heaven, I am a fool. _ He was torturing himself as much as Jamie, he knew. But just now, he couldn't be bothered to give the slightest damn.

Somewhere in the big house, a cry went up that the official time was half past eleven. An answering voice called for the guests to prepare for first-footing, whatever the devil that was. 

"I'll do it!" Jamie shouted.

The response was enthusiastically negative. "Nay, not you! Redheeded devil!" 

As John watched, three men, young Ian among them, seized Jamie by the arms and hauled him bodily toward his study. Jamie put up a good-natured struggle, laughing and arguing like a maniac. It was immensely attractive and John, seized by the sudden urge to leap into the fray, downed the remainder of his whisky and discarded his glass on a shelf.

"Lock him in the speak a word!" Ian shouted and the room erupted with cheers of assent. 

John dove into the scuffle, which was beginning to turn in favor of Jamie. He had worked one arm free and was pushing Ian back. Laying his hands on either side of Jamie’s broad chest, John shoved with all his might. “Put your back into it, lads!” John yelled, and they rallied, making up the ground they’d lost. At last, they reached the door of the study and wrenched it open. Jamie tripped, stumbling backward. Between Jamie’s hands fisted in John’s coat and their legs all askew, they tumbled into a heap, John landing on top of Jamie. The fall knocked the wind out of Jamie and he gulped air like a landed fish as John rolled off of him, both of them laughing as soon as they'd caught their breath. 

John scrambled to his feet just as the study door clicked shut and Ian's voice called through the door. "Sorry, John. It's nay personal, aye? We canna have Uncle Jamie going ‘round and spreading his ill luck and red hair all over the Ridge.”

The laughter from the floor began to subside and Jamie climbed to his feet, gasping for breath. Tears of mirth streamed from his eyes even as he stretched and winced with one hand on his back. “Dinna fash. They’ll let us out in twenty minutes or so. Long enough to gi’ Willie a head start.”

John blinked. “A head start? On what?”

Jamie waved off John’s concern. “He was chosen to do the first footing this year. By virtue of being the tallest, darkest, handsomest man here.” He made the statement as a matter of fact, but he beamed with pride. “So they’ll be getting him ready to bring gifts an’ good fortune to all the homesteads he can walk to. The lad is in for a long night.”

“I see,” John said, watching Jamie continue to grimace and stretch. “Are you quite alright?” He frowned in concern, stepping closer to his friend.

Jamie grumbled. “Aye, it’s nay but my back. I’ll be alright.” With casual sweeps of his hand, Jamie adjusted the pleats of his kilt and set right the brooch holding his plaid over his shoulder. 

_ Twenty minutes. _ Oh, what Lord John Grey could do to Jamie Fraser in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, all of those things would be much more enjoyable all around were Jamie’s spine not tied up in knots. John circled around to stand behind Jamie. “May I?”

Jamie made an interrogatory noise in his throat and nodded.

“Try to relax,” John said, and laid his hands lightly on Jamie’s back, under the sweeping tartan of his plaid. “Where does it hurt? Here?” He pressed his thumbs into the strong muscles under his hands and Jamie groaned, nodding. John dug his thumbs into Jamie’s back, forcing the knots out in a circular motion. “This would be more effective if you were lying down. And naked.” He intentionally said the word  _ naked _ as he jabbed his thumbs into Jamie’s back.

Jamie sucked in a breath, from pain or pleasure or desire, John was unsure. Possibly all three. "Christ, John. More. To the left."

"I do enjoy thoroughly a man who tells me exactly what he wants," John said, his tone leaving no room for confusion that he was not speaking in generalities. 

Jamie whirled on John, blue eyes blazing. “You, John Grey,” he enunciated every word clearly and deliberately, one hand in the middle of John’s chest as he drove him back toward the far edge of the room. John’s heart beat faster with every step of lost ground. “You have deviled me and vexed me.” Jamie paused, drew in a deep breath, his shoulders shuddering, and continued. John’s boot heels collided with the wall behind him. “”An’ ye’ve tormented me and left me burning with need throughout this entire evening.” 

With a final shove, John’s shoulder blades slammed into the wall. His heart pounded in his ears and his prick grew stiff.  _ Sweet Jesus, he’s going to take me right here _ . His mouth went dry at the thought.

John was struck suddenly with the absurd thought that this was the infamous Red Jamie, a Highland devil capable of berserker rage and unspeakable violence. The vision of being at the mercy of such a terrifying whirlwind and the knowledge that he was also completely safe sent a wild trill through John. “I, Jam--”

“Not a sound,” Jamie growled, his free hand coming up to tug loose John’s stock from around his neck. 

His throat bared, John felt terribly exposed. He could feel the outline of Jamie’s equally hard cock against his leg. “Please, Jami--”

Jamie removed his hand from John’s chest and clamped it over his mouth, silencing him. “I said,  _ Lord John,  _ not. A. Sound.”

It was not befitting a lieutenant colonel in His Majesty’s Army to whimper just because some very large, very attractive man had him pinned down and was prepared to have his way with him. But Jamie Fraser was not just  _ some very large, very attractive man _ . And John was no longer in the army.

He whimpered, as shamefully and pitiably as Jamie had earlier. Jamie’s hand stifled most of the sound, but Jamie still heard it. He arched one demonic, ruddy brow at John, and bent his head to lay a kiss on John’s throat. John struggled against Jamie’s grip but it was like iron, so he surrendered, breathing heavily through his nose. 

Jamie’s lips parted, warm and wet against John’s throat.  _ Oh God in heaven _ , John thought. The tempo shifted and he felt the sharp scrape of teeth, the gentle pressure of an exploratory bite. His breathing was cacophonous with Jamie's hand over his mouth. Jamie's scraping nips turned into a bite, hard. It probably wouldn't break the skin but it was sharp pressure and sent rivers of pleasure coursing through him. He felt the unmistakable sensation of suction against his flesh, felt the bruise blossoming there, and his prick ached for the same treatment.  _ Sweet fucking God, Jamie Fraser is marking me _ . 

John closed his eyes, gave himself over to sensation and Jamie's will. As the balance of pleasure and pain shifted in heavy favor of pain, Jamie released him, the air cooling his heated and abused flesh. John opened his eyes, waiting for Jamie to remove his hand from his mouth but he didn't. All he saw was a flash of red hair as Jamie switched sides, repeating the same treatment to another part of his throat. John moaned. He didn't care that he made noise. Didn't care that at any moment Jamie's nephew or wife or sister or any number of tenants could barge through that door and find the Laird of Fraser's Ridge ravishing an Englishman. 

In fact, the danger thrilled him. Emboldened by whisky and drunk on Jamie's lust, John reached out and stroked his hand down the length of Jamie's hard cock through the apron of his kilt. 

Jamie growled, pulled away from his throat, and snatched John's impetuous wrist with the hand not covering John's mouth. "I dinna say you could touch that yet." He pinned John's wrist to the wall above his head and his fierce eyes bore into his soul. "Now. Be a good laddie, John, and take what I gi’ ye." 

And Jamie was on him again, biting and sucking painful marks into the flesh of his throat and neck. John had no idea how long Jamie held him there. He thought he'd find five or six fresh bruises soon. But just as abruptly as it had begun, Jamie pulled away, released him. John quivered, swaying on his feet from the sudden loss of support. It took every ounce of will he possessed--and some he manufactured on the spot--not to wrestle Jamie to the ground and rip their clothes off.

Jamie, appearing far more composed than he had any right to be, began to carefully retie John's neck-cloth. "No one else will ken. An' ye willna forget who ye belong to."

John felt an absolute mess. There was no possible way that he could rejoin the party and no one be the wiser to what had just happened. Jamie wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, and when he had finished, his smile was perfectly normal and calm, the unreadable mask on his face. “Smile, John. They’re coming to let us out.”

For decades, John had perfected the art of staying hidden, of disguising his feelings. Now though, he felt at a loss for how to proceed. All he could focus on was the throbbing bruises all over his neck, hidden, like a secret treasure. Footsteps on the floorboards outside the study galvanized him, and John snapped his own mask into place as the key turned in the lock.


	2. Retribution and Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John makes good on his threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: Shaking and Shivering.

By the time John had leave to search for Jamie again, the party had thinned out. Those who lived nearest to the big house had left already to welcome Willie in for first-footing. John was still not entirely clear on what that entailed, but he did understand that it was a task not suitable for someone with red hair according to some ancient tradition.  _ And thank God for superstitions, _ John thought. If it hadn’t been for this particular belief, John never would have been locked in the laird’s study for twenty minutes with said sexually domineering laird. 

A laird who had retied his stock for him just a little too tight, most likely on purpose so that the cloth would put constant pressure on his tormented throat. John tugged at the stock with one finger, which only succeeded in putting more pressure on a different mark. He sucked in a breath through his nose to keep from grimacing. John at last shoved his hand in his coat pocket to keep from fidgeting with it more. 

John was in the parlor making amiable conversation with a rather intoxicated tenant whose name he had not understood when he spotted Jamie through one of the windows. He stood alone under a walnut tree, a thumb hooked casually under his belt. His tartan was starkly contrasted against the moonlit snow, red and green and proud. Jamie’s hair blazed about him in a wild inferno and John was reasonably certain that Jamie was staring at him through the window. The only movement was that of his hair and kilt in the breeze, and John felt him beckon. His imagination or not, John left the big house in a daze, descended the few porch steps, and crossed the yard, Jamie’s eyes drilling into him all the while.

They stood a few feet apart for a time, staring at each other. John had no clue what was going through Jamie's mind. But John was thinking of all the possible ways they could warm each other in the snowy mountain midnight. The night was silent, carrying with it that eery, close feeling of total seclusion that standing snow brings. Occasionally, the wind brought them distant laughter, like that of spirits. They need only disappear a few yards into the trees and they would be completely alone.

“Will ye take a walk with me?” Jamie asked.

John nodded, warmth and excitement flooding his chest. “Of course.” One of Jamie’s marks was directly over John’s pulse, and as his heart hammered away he felt the throbbing ache of it. It thrilled him to have such obvious evidence hidden by only a piece of cloth. Both Jamie and John had led lives rather devoid of privacy. But the throbbing bruises on John’s neck was their own dirty little secret. Something intimate, just for the two of them.

They walked into the trees without another word, the snow crunching under their boots. They walked until the spectral laughter couldn’t find them, until the big house was long out of sight and the cabins and homesteads were invisible in the distance. Jamie led them through a thicket and stopped, bracing one arm on the trunk of a towering pine tree. His other hand found John’s and laced their fingers together. It was Jamie’s intact hand, John felt. Jamie nodded to the space in front of them, drawing John’s rapt attention away from his friend for the first time since they’d left the yard. 

John couldn’t make out much detail, but the silvery light of the heavens illuminated a vast valley far below the ridge where they stood, hand in hand. He thought he heard rushing water somewhere, and the breeze played in the trees, rattling bare branches and rustling those laden with evergreen needles. And for all the glory of the view, John was most taken by the warm hand holding his. By the man to his left who was as much a part of as above this wild place, like an elemental spirit made from the trees and rocks themselves.  _ Honestly, Grey, you’ve got to stop this. You simply cannot go about your life writing poetry in your head. It’s uncouth.  _

“How is your neck?” Jamie asked without preamble.

Perhaps it was the cold wind that made John shiver. Perhaps, but not bloody likely. “Hurts like hell if I move the wrong way.” Gooseflesh erupted across John’s body. “And interacting with your family and tenants with your marks throbbing on my skin was possibly the most erotic experience of my life.”

Jamie made one of his wordless and eloquent noises in his throat and tugged John closer by the hand he held. Dropping John’s hand, Jamie draped his arm around John’s shoulders, holding him close to his side. “Ye made some bold threats tonight, John. I dinna bide idle threats.” There was a pause in which John could bring himself to say nothing. “Were they idle threats, John?”

For three pounding heartbeats, John considered lying. But Jamie would see right through that. It wasn’t that John was a bad liar, quite the opposite, actually. But Jamie could read him like a book. At last he shook his head. “No. They were not.”

“Mmhmm,” Jamie said, nodding. He turned to face John, his back braced against the soaring pine, and he shifted his grip on John’s shoulder to push down on him. It was firm but not forceful, leaving John room to refuse. “On your knees, then.”

John obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees in the snow at Jamie’s feet. He’d neglected his cloak but John was suddenly burning all over and it was easy to ignore the snow soaking his breeches. Jamie spun his sporran aside so that it draped over one hip and laid one hand on the back of John’s head, a gentle reminder of his earlier taunt. John placed his hands on Jamie’s bare knees and slid them up his strong thighs, lifting his kilt with the motion. Jamie’s legs felt chilled under his palms, but his cock stood stiff and ready for him. The sight of it, inches from his mouth, filled John with such an inexorable hunger that he took it all in one abrupt motion. He swallowed around Jamie, inhaling the scent of him and getting comfortable. 

This was John’s own personal heaven. He’d died in the woods a few moments ago, somehow found salvation for all his sins, and servicing Jamie Fraser with his mouth was John’s eternal reward.

Jamie’s hand on John’s head brought him back to reality as his long fingers stroked John’s hair. Slowly, he pulled back, dragging his lips along Jamie’s length, and took him to the root once more. Again he repeated the motion, his tongue swirling along the underside and flicking at the tip. He kept his pace slow, forcing himself to be patient, to build Jamie carefully to his crescendo. Jamie sighed above him, gasped. John knew what he liked, what would drive him mad with pleasure.

The snow had soaked John’s breeches and the frigid wind at the top of the cliff penetrated his suit. He shivered with the cold, but kept up his steady pace of back and forth. Jamie’s hand twitched against the back of John’s head. He passed from uncomfortably cold into the realm of rather freezing, shivers wracking his body. The only points of warmth John felt now was Jamie’s hand on the back of his head and his prick in his mouth. How could Jamie be so impervious to the cold, especially with his balls uncovered? 

Struck with sudden inspiration, John cupped Jamie’s balls with one hand, and Jamie gave a small yelp. “Christ,” he muttered. With a feeling of absolute wicked impishness, John slid his free hand under Jamie’s kilt and took a handful of rather remarkable ass in a hard grip. “Christ, John, yer hands are freezing!” Jamie complained.

Without pausing or slowing his rhythm of slide-swirl-suck-slide-swallow, John grinned around Jamie’s cock.  _ Bloody right they are _ . 

Jamie was breathing hard now, time to pick up the pace. Keeping much the same pattern, though the cold and his shivering were beginning to hamper his efforts, John moved faster, grew rougher. Every fourth pass or so he let his teeth gently scrape Jamie’s flesh. Never enough to really hurt, but enough to make him jump and twitch under his hands and in his mouth.

“Oh God,” Jamie moaned. John cast his eyes upward to see that Jamie had his free hand above him, fingers digging into the pine bark, his head thrown back and eyes skyward. It was a glorious sight, this powerful man swept away by the pleasure that John was giving him.

The shaking and shivering came more violently, but his sense of the cold was fading into the background. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he thought that perhaps was not a good thing. But Jamie’s cock was leaking in his mouth and he found it impossible to care about the possibility of freezing to death.

Jamie brought his other hand to John’s head and his fingers tightened in his hair. There was a shift and a grunt of effort, and Jamie pushed himself away from the tree trunk, taking a more aggressive stance. John didn’t change anything about what he was doing. He knew Jamie liked to seize control from him rather than have it surrendered easily. John’s body shook and shivered and his extremities grew numb, but he persisted.

Then came the final shift. Jamie’s hands convulsed in John’s hair, gripping and pulling and driving him while he thrust his hips. He was close, and John, unable to keep up his rhythm under the rough treatment and his own cold shaking, could only hold on. In and out of his mouth, Jamie’s pace was brutal, colliding with the back of John's throat. John grabbed Jamie’s ass with both hands, fingers digging into his flesh as hard as he could with all the shivering and shaking.

“Christ,” Jamie gasped. He took his pleasure from John, pummeled his mouth, used him. Tears stood in John’s eyes and he blinked them away lest they freeze there. Jamie groaned and gasped as he slammed into the back of John’s throat over and over, leaving John to take ragged breaths through his nose as he could. 

Jamie’s hands twisted, pulled at John’s hair.  _ So close _ , John thought. Any moment now, Jamie would spill into him and John would drink him down like a man dying of thirst. The anticipation was unbelievably arousing, and if he wasn’t so cold and shaking so violently, John would have his own aching prick in his hand already. It wouldn’t take him long to join Jamie over the edge. But John  _ was _ too cold, and he therefore found himself bound to cling to this precipice while he serviced Jamie. 

Pain sprang up on his scalp, giving way to a delicious kind of pleasure as Jamie pulled his hair. Jamie’s rhythm faltered. “Oh God, John,” he cried as hot, thick seed flooded John’s mouth. He tasted salty sweet and musky and John swallowed it down greedily, holding Jamie close to him with trembling hands while he finished. He sucked Jamie's cock clean, taking every drop he could draw out of him.

Jamie's hands caressed John's head, stroked his hair with a tenderness that seemed entirely foreign from the ravishing he had just taken. At last, Jamie pulled his cock away, letting his kilt fall back into place. John sank back on his heels and wrapped his arms about himself, shaking and shivering so violently he couldn't speak, couldn't think. 

"John?" Jamie asked. "Christ, did I hurt you?" He sank to one knee next to John, an arm going around his shoulders.

Teeth chattering audibly, John shook his head. “C-c-cold,” he stammered. He felt like an idiot. Jamie had one bare knee in the snow next to him, the breeze probably blowing directly up his kilt, and here John couldn’t stop shivering when he was wearing breeches and a suit. 

Jamie tugged open John’s stock and laid one warm hand against his abused throat. His touch was warm and soothing and John wanted Jamie’s hot hands all over him.  _ Honestly, is the man completely impervious to cold? _

“Christ, John, yer freezing. What the devil were ye about coming outside without a cloak? Eejit.” Jamie paused in his scolding to get his strong arms around John and haul him to his feet. “Come on. The malting shed isna far. It’s warmer there.” Jamie unclipped his brooch and wrapped his plaid around them both, holding John close to him. John was past shivering and had crossed directly into the realm of spasms. 

It was several minutes of stumbling to the malting shed, with Jamie supporting John most of the way. Once inside, Jamie pulled away from John long enough to light a lantern with his flint. The smoldering embers under the floor hadn’t been built up in a day or two. John thought it must be warmer, even if just by virtue of being out of the wind, but he was too numb to tell for certain.

The shed illuminated by the warm glow of the lantern, Jamie returned to his side and began unbuttoning John’s coat and waistcoat. “Mary and Bride, John, yer soaked through." 

John stared up at Jamie's face, brow furrowed in concern, eyes fierce and focused on his task. He yanked and tugged John's clothes off roughly, rebuking him the entire time. John thought it entirely unfair that Jamie was so angry with him while he was the one freezing to death. He opened his mouth to say so but only managed to stutter out a few unintelligible syllables before Jamie cut him off.

"I canna understand ye, John." Jamie draped John's wet coat and waistcoat over a hook on the wall. With deft fingers, he got John's flies open and tugged his breeches down, swearing mightily in French when John's boots got in the way. 

"W-w-what are you d-doing?" John managed.

Jamie didn't spare him a glance. "Getting ye out of her wet clothes so ye dinna freeze to death." 

The world around John was hazy and unfocused as Jamie fussed over him. Without really having realized it had happened, John stood stark naked before Jamie, save for his stockings. He watched Jamie undress as if through frosted glass, saw him fold the considerable length of his kilt in half. Jamie laid the folded kilt on the floorboards and helped John to lie down on one side of it. Lying down close beside him, Jamie pulled John to him, wrapping him up in his arms and throwing the kilt over them both. 

Jamie's flesh was hot against his, and the wool enveloping them was warm and dry. John clung to Jamie, who rubbed his arms and back in brisk, comforting motions. Gradually, John began to thaw out, the convulsions fading away to shivers again. He buried his face in Jamie's bare chest, inhaling the scent of him, like wood smoke and the greenery that decorated the big house. It was euphoric to be so cared for and John could not recall feeling safer in his entire life than in this moment. 

Violent shivers continued to course through him at random, but by and large, being wrapped up in Jamie's kilt, their bare legs tangled together, was working. "Thank you," John whispered with barely a hitch in his voice now. 

Jamie kissed the top of his head and laid his cheek against John's tussled hair. "Did ye no ken ye'd sweat through to her coat? Clot heed." There was no venom in Jamie's words. He scolded John in much the same way he'd heard Claire scold Jamie when he was ill or injured.

John smiled against Jamie's skin. "I was considerably distracted."

"Aye, well," Jamie said, tightening his grip on John. "I expect I may have had a wee bit to do wi' it."

"You had  _ everything  _ to do with it." John's erection had flagged on the walk to the malting shed, but with their naked bodies entwined as they were, his arousal was returning. 

Jamie evidently noticed that John’s stiff cock was digging into his thigh--and how could he not. His hands slowed, the practical warming of John’s flesh giving way to something far more sensual and intimate. His hands, work-roughened and strong, caressed John’s body with unparalleled tenderness. Jamie’s thumbs teased John’s nipples, his fingers pressed into the meat of his ass, one hand sliding across John’s hip to close around his prick. 

Between the thrilling sensation of Jamie’s hand around him and the glorious feeling of being warm again, John sighed with the pleasure of it. “Jamie,” he whispered, though he had nothing to say beyond the want of this man's name on his lips.

“Shh, dinna fash, John. I’ll take care of you.” Jamie nuzzled John’s forehead until John turned his face up so Jamie could claim a kiss. He kissed John with an open mouth, slow and lazy, and John wondered if Jamie could taste himself on John’s tongue. There were no worries nor cares here, snuggled in their secret refuge, and John melted into Jamie’s arms. His fist worked along John’s length in a steady rhythm. The grip around his cock was loose and teasing at first, gradually growing firmer and more insistent. Jamie didn’t release John’s mouth, held him locked in the kiss as surely as he was locked in his embrace. 

No, it wasn't going to take long. John's heart thundered in his ears, his blood singing with heat and need, and he moaned into Jamie's mouth. He dug his blunt fingernails into the flesh of Jamie's back and shoulders. John let Jamie drive him toward his release, the rough fist working his cock deliciously at odds with the tenderness of Jamie's handling of him otherwise. 

Jamie relinquished his mouth at last, leaving John to throw his head back, gasping. He was  _ right there _ and his entire body was taut and tingling as his blood heated again. "Do it, John. Let go," Jamie whispered, his breath hot on John's ear.

He did, his climax barreling into him, through him, out of him. "God, Jamie," he gasped. Jamie's arm tightened around his torso, holding him close as John spilled between them, warm and thick. The relief was consummate and immediate and John buried his face in Jamie's chest again, trembling and panting and breathing in that comforting scent of Jamie. 

Jamie's other arm was around him now, his hands running those protective, possessive patterns all over John's body again. He planted a kiss on John's forehead. "There's my bonnie lad, well done," Jamie whispered. "Rest easy now,  _ mo ghille bòidheach _ ." 

John settled against Jamie, grounded himself to him, and waited to come back down. He savored the feeling of being held, cared for, warm, and satiated. It seemed a lifetime ago that he'd last felt so good. John only realized that he was drifting off to sleep when Jamie moved, some indeterminate eternity later. John whined in protest. "Don't leave me," he murmured, clinging tighter with his arms and legs, loathe to be parted from Jamie's warmth.

Jamie chuckled and peeled John's arms off of him. "I'm no' leaving, ye octopus. I'm going to build a fire so your clothes will dry by dawn." 

Begrudgingly, John was forced to admit the wisdom in that and allowed Jamie to get up, tucking the kilt back around John. He burrowed into the wool that smelled of the two of them now and frowned up at Jamie as he collected wood from a hopper.

"That's where he gets it," Jamie said.

"That's where who gets what?" John asked. He was feeling most annoyed with consciousness at the moment.

"Willie. That petulant frown o' his. Ye've got the same look about ye now." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," John lied. He was getting cold again, and he drew his knees to his chest, watching Jamie impatiently. "You said 'by dawn.' Do you intend us to spend the night out here?"

The fire sprang to life and John opened the fold of the kilt to let Jamie lie down next to him again. "Aye, I do." He pulled John into his arms once more.

"Claire will be rather put out."

"Aye, that's as may be," Jamie replied. "But I'll explain t'was a matter of life and death. She'll understand."

John's brow furrowed against Jamie's chest. "And when she asks for details?"

"Aye, well. She'll understand that too." Jamie kissed the top of John's head. "Sleep now, John. I'll keep ye safe."

For the dozenth time that night, John obeyed, drifting immediately into sleep on an ocean of safety, warmth, and affection. 


End file.
